


AWOL

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Reality, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Medication, Post-Kerberos Mission, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Romance, Slow Dancing, Suspense, Sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-10-12 22:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10501167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: Shiro spends ten days in an alternate reality where life is perfect. At the end of those ten days, he has to make the hardest decision of his life.





	1. DAY ONE

**Author's Note:**

> My beta's only major critique of this was Shiro and Keith's coral sheets.

Before everything, Shiro remembers Keith's scream cutting through the channel. In a moment, there's the other man's gruff voice ringing in his ears, calling his name again and again through hoary static. Blackish light is flashing across his vision as a single incoming wall, and when his vision decides to focus, his pupils dilate in an attempt to absorb as much of the lethal light as possible. In that same moment, the orders tumbling off his tongue cease to exist, and the blackness slams against his forehead like a palm to a switch.

It's a knife slipped across a throat, the initial silence weighing heavy and pregnant. Shiro is hushed by the realization that contact has been cut, and it's only after the shock settles do his emotions gurgle. There's a stutter, but eventually, the stagger blossoms like begonias. He's seeing red though he can't hear it. He's panicking.

Shiro shakes his head in an attempt to regain his vision. Sweat soaks his throat, running into the high neck of his armor's undersuit, and the air is thick. He licks his upper-lip and his heart claws at his ears. Frightened, he looks back and forth, but it's as if all of the universe's light has been swallowed in concluding gulps. Shiro yells, but he can't formulate words. There are no words to express the fear of painlessness in nothingness. The only sensation remaining in his body is a sudden tingling in his fingertips that reminds him of crawling ants.

Flexing his fingers, he tries to make it stop, but it only worsens the unpleasant feeling. He knows he has to find a way out, but he doesn't even know where he is or what's happened. Before a plan can begin to form, a burst of purple neon expresses from both of his hands. Shiro inhales as his eyes adjust to the violent change, but when focus returns, he sees his fingertips are deconstructing into translucent purple blocks.

The blocks scatter and wane into the surrounding darkness. Shiro attempts to move his hands from his invisible chair's armrests, but he realizes his sense of feeling is being eradicated along with the blocks. When the deconstruction reaches both of his wrists, he realizes something that makes his throat spasm.

He's disappearing.

"Keith!" he screams the name in agony, words uncomfortably scraping from his throat. Shiro wasn't ready to leave Keith. Keith wasn't ready for Shiro to leave him. " _Keith_!"

There's a flash of white light that pulsates in blinding heartbeats.

All feeling stops, and suddenly, he's simply sentient.

He thinks, "Have I died?"

He thinks, "There's so much more I have to say."

He thinks, "What about the universe? Earth?"

He thinks, "What about the man I love?"

He hears static, but even that fades into nothing.

For Shiro, it feels like decades before the silence clicks over. It flips its own tape. It presses play. There's a long pause before the volume's knob is cranked to the right, and as it turns, the static returns with it.

_Good morning, Galaxy Garrison base! It is The Lance. Your one and only morning consistency that isn't coffee, and hopefully, a toothbrush. Before I drag you through their morning routines, we're looking at a 17°C kind of morning. Cloudy, which means, can you actually believe it? Rain._

It's 5 AM.

Half-awake on his back, Shiro can feel his heartbeat knocking its fist against his sternum as his eyelids push through sleep's thickets. Beneath him is a California king swathed in coral sheets, and streaming through a window that overlooks rusty canyons is warbling light shining through an infinity pool. The light makes the darkened bedroom feel surreal and disconnected, even with the anchoring alarm blaring from his bedside table. He realizes it feels earlier than it is, and he realizes it's because he sweated through sleep again.

_Skip the shower and go back to sleep. You can't teach a junior class on four hours of sleep. Cologne exists for a reason, Takashi._

There's something warm beside him.

Shiro turns his head from the window and sees another person's curled frame. Peeking from beneath the shared blankets is a crop of sleep tangled hair, thick and black along a blue pillowcase. A noncommittal smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and after slamming the snooze button, he rolls onto his side and slides his arm around his bedmate's waist. Gently, he tugs the naked back toward his own stripped chest and he presses his forehead against the back of the man's head. Sucking in a meditative breath, he slowly exhales warm air.

"Good morning," Keith murmurs, throat clearly dry from his hard sleep.

Shiro leans in even more and brushes his mouth along the sharp line that makes Keith's jaw. "Good morning."

"You actually hit the snooze button."

"Let's just say I've missed you."

Keith reaches to hide his face with his palm, but rather than express embarrassment, he rubs his nose as if scratching an itch. Keith melds himself against the man, and with a tired hum, thinly whispers his next words.

"You can't miss someone you've lived with for a year."

Shiro begins to kiss toward Keith's ear, playfully mouthing at his earlobe upon finding it. He laughs when Keith squirms. "Oh, but I think you can."

After a sigh, Keith reaches behind himself and haphazardly attempts to push Shiro back. He sleepily chuckles. "You haven't even had coffee yet and you're being like this?"

"Do you want me to stop?" Shiro asks, slowly retracting, but Keith slides his fingers into what he can of Shiro's hair. Stilling the man, he looks over his shoulder and closes his eyes when Shiro kisses his nose.

"I love you," Keith says, words light and easy. As an answer, it's more than good enough.

Shiro blinks, appearing startled. "You love me?"

Keith incredulously raises an eyebrow. He twists his mouth to the side.

"That's a bad joke even for you."

Shiro clears his throat and his next words fall from his lips like second nature. He smiles, even if it is sheepish. "I love you too. I'll never love someone half as much."

It's as if he's never said it before.

Shiro wonders if it'll always feel as good.

Keith kisses his forehead to avoid morning breath, and he reminds Shiro he doesn't have to be at work until noon. At this gentle cue to keep the lights off, Shiro peels himself from the bed and disappears into the bathroom to spend twenty minutes standing beneath a rainfall of cool water. When he's clean enough, he settles on black briefs and an A-shirt until he has to step into uniform.

It isn't until he's walking toward the kitchen in semi-darkness does he find the warbling from the pool returning. Glimmering light reflects off him, but he's not used to it segmenting his space the way it wants to right then. Shiro pauses and looks to the horizon line, wondering if the day is coming slower.

_Sleep more._

_You should sleep more._

The house is nestled on a bluff and comprised of mostly glass walls, but the single level home currently sits inside Shiro's mind like a fog. Everything is dark hardwoods and mid-century furniture, and while he can't recall purchasing both the house and its interior design, he knows he's seen a credit card statement. That mistiness is the general feeling of the whole property, though. If he stepped into the kitchen, then he'd know where to find the coffee beans (farthest shelf to the right inside the hidden pantry), and if he meandered beyond walls toward the nearby hiking trails, then he'd know where to find his favorite rock climbing wall. It's nothing to do with the where. He's suddenly stunted by the when.

_Maybe you should have your medication checked._

_That, too._

Such confusion haunts him through using the French press and toasting slices of wheat bread and smearing them with ripe avocado. He flips on all the lights in the kitchen, even the formal dining room, hoping the brightness will chain him back to his home, but it never quite works. Deciding there's nothing he can do about the unsettling clench inside his stomach, he finishes his morning routine, kisses Keith's sleeping head goodbye and slips through the garage door. He's greeted by his Audi, Keith's matte black BMW and then a hover bike.

The luxuriousness startles him, but it feels standard.

He drives across the expansive base. Passing the commissary, dormitories and schools for children yet to commit to the Garrison, Shiro's brain informs him this is his home and he's happy. He loves his life. His job is everything he'd hope for and more what with the successful Kerberos mission behind him, and his childhood friend turned partner is loving, determined and on his way to following in his footsteps.

The workday, his brain also tells him, is like any other workday.

After a morning in the flight simulator with some of the smallest cadets he's ever seen, Shiro meets Keith in the lounge to eat lunch before Keith takes his turn teaching in the flight simulator. Eating matching bowls of kale, sweet potato chunks and roasted chicken, the two of them listen to Iverson complain about how the cadets are taking themselves less and less serious with each passing year. It isn't until he has to make it to his next class does Keith turn to look toward him and steal a piece of his chicken with a hum.

"He's never going to retire," Keith says, chewing with a lifted brow. "I'll retire before him at this rate."

"Probably not, but do you really want him to? Who else would yell at us every single day like we're still cadets? Think of Iverson as the last thing keeping us grounded."

"Don't be full of shit, Shiro."

Shiro laughs, shrugging off the comment. After shaking his head, Keith gives up and laughs too. He wipes his mouth, and when Shiro laughs again, throws the napkin at his chest.

He catches the paper, and Keith stops short.

"That's a look if I've ever seen one," Shiro says. "Are you that impressed by my reflexes?"

"We have dinner at the Holts' tonight."

Shiro clears his throat and knowingly smiles. He scratches at his temple and exhales. "You forgot."

"Technically, no."

"You forgot _again_."

Keith looks to the side. "I'm pleading the fifth."

Shiro knows he forgot but decides against reminding him planners exist for a reason. Instead, he shrugs and chews through a mouthful before adding a final thought. "We always have a good time, especially after Mrs. Holt opens a bottle of wine. I could watch a show dedicated to Matt and Katie trying to outsmart one another."

"My money is always on Katie," Keith says and finishes his canned coffee. Shiro appreciates the way his Adam's apple lifts and falls through his swallows, and he turns his face from him as if inspecting his drink.

"That makes two of us."

Shiro anticipates his mood to lift throughout the day, but aside from his meeting with Keith and their passing conversations in the hall, he can't say much makes him feel lighter. Overall, the day passes like smoke through a screen, and when he returns home to change for dinner, he has to wonder if maybe he medicated himself wrong. He can't fathom how when he pointedly double checks his pill box, but he figures things can happen.

He doesn't have time to check, though.

"Good thing they're used to us being late," Keith says, fully dressed and tossing Shiro a pair of black pants as soon as he steps into the bedroom. "Blame me. They always believe that."

"A student needed help with a formula," Shiro explains and begins removing his uniform. It's unlike him to simply lay it on the bed, but he's out of time.

Keith passes him and gives his ass a sharp whack that rings through Shiro's whole system. He glances at the clock, figures two minutes won't make much of difference, and clasps onto Keith's leaving wrist. Keith exhales in surprise, and Shiro tugs him close for a greeting kiss on the mouth. It's supposed to be a fleeting 'hello' of sorts, but when their mouths meet, he opens his lips and cradles the back of Keith's head.

"Hi," Keith finally whispers.

"Hi," Shiro murmurs before sucking on his bottom lip.

They retract with a smile and Keith reluctantly glances at the clock even though Shiro's heavy eyes never leave his face. Keith glides his splayed fingers down Shiro's chest and gently pushes away to tie back his hair in the bathroom. Shiro pauses to admire him as one whole, and for unknown reasons, he's relieved.

" _Keith!"_

He winces at the intrusive memory from his dream and finishes stepping into pants. Deciding on a grey t-shirt, he stands in front of the full body mirror and brushes back his black bangs. Shiro runs both hands along his throat and continues to stare himself down. He doesn't recognize the man he's looking at anymore.

"Let's go," Keith urges and grabs his keys off the dresser.

Narrowing his stare at himself as he flexes his right hand, he tugs his gaze away and follows Keith across the house. There are mirrors in the halls, but he refuses to look at them.

They arrive at the Holts' house. It's a mile away and significantly bigger than Shiro's, but this is based on family size. Shiro parks his car in the driveway and grips the steering wheel with a tense squeeze. Keith reaches for his bicep before leaning over to lightly kiss his temple, eyes closing as he says nothing. Shiro knows he's being supportive through silence, especially when he believes Shiro is having a small episode. They've both learned bringing attention to it does more harm than good.

"Think about the roast beef," Keith says and lets himself out of the car.

They're greeted by a cool breeze, but Shiro is disappointed the rain never came. He walks alongside Keith to the front porch, and before they knock, the door is thrown open.

"Time," Katie says, standing with her arms across her chest. She's in black shorts and an overwhelming green hooded sweatshirt, smiling. "A continuous, measurable quantity in which events occur in a sequence proceeding from the past through the present to the future. Do you know what you're bad at, Shiro?"

Keith leans forward. "Don't you mean me?"

She quirks an eyebrow and looks Keith over from head to toe. "You're just bad at taking flak for him."

"Alright," Matt calls from down the hall. Shiro sees him peek into the hallway with a frown. "That's enough viciousness for the whole dinner. You're so rude, Katie."

His head disappears into the dining room and Shiro softly laughs. He grabs Katie's shoulder and spins her toward the house's inside. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

They pause in the foyer to remove their shoes. Keith quickly slips his off and walks ahead, but Shiro lingers behind to undo laces, not wanting to ruin the integrity of his designer boots' leather. He presses his hand against the wall as he kicks back his leg to tug a lace and turns his head with an exhale. In the distance, Keith's murmuring swells around his head, but after a split-second, it occurs to him the tone is all wrong. The words are rapid, panicked. There are even threads of panting, but he's not sure.

Shiro closes his eyes and tries to narrow in on the sound. Is it even coming from down the hall? He decides there's no way and looks toward the stairs in front of him. It's not coming from there either.

His eyes coast back to the opposite wall, and he spots another mirror. Shiro stares at himself, uncomfortable again, and his gaze darts to the floor. His breathing is unsteady, and he knows he's fighting a meltdown.

In his peripheral vision, something shifts.

It's sudden, a shadowy figure that doesn't make sense. He snaps his head to the side to look, and without warning, the house goes dark. It's too instantaneous to be electricity. It's not real. Shiro sucks in a quick breath and forgets his shoes, kicking them off and striding toward the hallway. He calls Keith's name followed by Matt's and Mr. Holts, but nothing comes. It's as if the house has been vacated of all life.

"Keith…" he says carefully.

There's nothing, not a sound.

Cautiously, Shiro walks down the long hallway, passing the wide doorway to the dining room and making note of the empty dining room table. By now, Mrs. Holt would've had Katie set the table, but even the smells of her cooking have evaporated from the home. Shiro clears his throat, reaching to run his hand over his damp forehead and collect sweat. He looks down at his right hand, at the gleaming skin and darts his stare up.

A figure is standing at the end of the hallway.

"Who's there?" Shiro calls.

It remains stoic, legs spread and shoulders righted. Shiro furrows his brow and sets his jaw. His eyes adjust to the home's blueish bleakness, but when he realizes who he's looking at, he sharply inhales.

It's himself, but it's not.

Dressed in a foreign white suit with a black slash across the front, Shiro stares himself down in cold silence that stills even the dust motes. The face is shadowed, but between the face shape and build, he knows his own features. While veiled, Shiro can still examine the bridge of his nose, the tapered shape of his eyes.

"What's going on?" he whispers, the words terse.

The doppelgänger lifts its right arm and beckons with two fingers. Shiro does the proper opposite and scoots backward, knowing he needs to leave the house, knowing the last thing he wants is to walk ahead. Afraid to look at the face, Shiro closes his view in on the fingers, and suddenly, his heart crashes down his ribcage.

_What happened to my hand?_


	2. Day Two

_Morning._

_Thank God._

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He's seated on the edge of the bed, hands dangling between his knees with Keith's forehead pressed to the back of his neck. Having spent the past several minutes staring through the bedroom window's cradled dawn, Shiro closes his eyes when Keith kisses between his shoulder blades. The contact is comfortably sticky. It's just the right kind of warm after a taciturn evening turned fatigued morning, but he still sighs and hangs his head, unable to let Keith console him.

He wants to let him. He really does.

"I don't think there's anything to talk about."

The night before, Keith discovered him knelt down in the Holt foyer ready to disappear. Shaking with his fingers in his hair and breathing so hard his lips frothed, Keith had shouted his name and sprinted to his side. This had drawn the attention of the entire Holt family, but it was only Sam who pursued Keith down the hall. Shiro had barely digested their conversation. Words like 'this happens sometimes' and 'shithole medication' and 'anchor him' passed through Shiro like an uninterested ghost. It was as if he'd only been halfway there. One foot in. The other out.

"Shiro," Keith whispers and kisses again. "You can talk to me, baby."

"There's nothing to talk about," he repeats. He lies. "It was that landing. It's that landing's fault, and I can't get it out of my head. My brain doesn't get why I'm still alive and – It keeps trying to put me in other places. You know. You were in the room when the psychologist explained it."

Keith rubs his hands along both sides of Shiro's ribcage again and again. It's what he does when he thinks Shiro's slipping away. The doctors told him touch can be a tether. "Knowing what's wrong doesn't mean we can't talk about it. It's okay to feel like you're repeating yourself."

He's struck by one fact.

Keith is gentle. Shiro wishes the rest of the world could see just how.

"Acknowledging it doesn't make it go away," Keith continues, insistent. He kisses Shiro's bare shoulder and Shiro turns his head enough so that his face is pressed to Keith's crown.

"Katie shouldn't have to see me like that."

"You heard Mr. Holt," he says, words muffled by Shiro's skin. "Matt hasn't been doing much better. You three almost died re-entering the planet's atmosphere. Shiro, it's okay."

He can't dwell on the borderline tragedy beyond Keith's explanatory sentence. Shiro kisses his boyfriend's head again and again with the faintest hum, and Keith suddenly encircles his arms around Shiro's waist to hold him close. Back to Keith's chest, Shiro takes a moment to even his breathing and connect himself to their moment together. He's not entirely there, but it's better.

"Make breakfast with me," Keith urges and pulls away.

This steals a grin from Shiro. He flops onto his back so he can tilt his head and watch Keith shimmy into sweats. "You must feel bad for me if you're asking me to help in the kitchen. Last time, I thought you were going to make me eat every piece of egg shell you found."

"You can _stir_ the egg wash for the French toast."

"Keith, I think the appropriate term would be _whisk_."

Keith grabs a decorative pillow and drops it onto his face. "All I've gotta do is apply pressure."

"You would be doing me a favor."

He wrenches the pillow off Shiro's face and laughs before whacking him with it. "Don't say that."

Also laughing, Shiro grabs his wrists and tugs him down. Keith's hip barely misses his head, and once landed, Shiro reaches up and pointedly smacks Keith's ass again and again. Keith attempts to roll away, but Shiro manages to wrap an arm around his midsection and trap him. This earns Shiro an exasperated groan from Keith who is then defeated, dropping his chest onto the mattress and hugging Shiro's leg. He grumbles, but Shiro isn't sure it's meant to be audible.

"I love you," Keith says as if it's a chore.

Shiro turns his head and kisses Keith's hipbone, still smiling. "I love you too."

They make breakfast, quietly gossiping about the Garrison and swapping rumors. Apparently, Lance McClain, the base's disc jockey, is joining Keith as a teacher in the flight simulator even though Keith is _certain_ he was mediocre at best as a cadet. Shiro reminds him that he's so above average he shouldn't compare himself to others, and Keith stops cutting strawberries to kiss the air in his direction. Shiro laughs, covering his face with a hand, but after Keith's expectant look returns the gesture. This appeases Keith just enough for him to finish slicing fruit.

It's a day like any other day for Shiro.

Weekends, where he's not overwhelmed with grading papers, are spent with Keith, and to be honest, he's content in that alone. After breakfast, Keith and Shiro go for a jog along the hellish inclines behind their house. Their stamina is matched partly because they've been working out together since they were both teenagers, but also because they've lived most of their lives to always fight alongside one another. Never better than the other, Shiro knows Keith is his other half.

"That kicked my ass," Keith announces more to the canyon than Shiro. He reaches his arms high above his head, acting like they don't have the whole run back left.

Shiro admires the man's glistening biceps and how he subconsciously struts like a peacock across the overlook. He's poised in a way that's solely his demeanor, but there are those frayed edges to Keith that remind Shiro he's enraptured with a man the Garrison once called 'rabid.' In black Nike tights and a red tank top, he's structured and thoughtlessly picking at black tennis shoes while admiring the view. In Shiro's heart, Keith is uncontained and his driving force.

He loves him.

Shiro loves him, and he's known this, but the realization right then is so thick he can't swallow the cementing nature it entails. He looks at Keith and something between his sternum and navel begins to blister through, char like a house that's been burning inside its walls for hours only to finally collapse in flames. He's become engulfed in the feeling, and he has to act on it right then. It's weird timing. Keith has no idea what he's feeling, and Shiro sees that as a disservice.

He approaches Keith from behind and carefully brings his arms around Keith's middle. Before Keith can remind him he smells, Shiro presses his cheek to Keith's. His partner says nothing, but he reaches for Shiro's opposite cheek and touches one of the arms looped around his waist.

Shiro doesn't know why he says the next few words. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Keith murmurs.

There's something on the tip of Shiro's tongue. It occurs to him that it's the dream, but he can't admit to Keith how deep-rooted some issues are. He doesn't want to believe one of his many bad dreams could haunt him on top of everything else he's dealing with. Shiro knows Keith is milling through the evening before as they stand there, and he'd only make it worse.

"Things happen," he says without further explanation.

Keith's scream.

Inside his head, Keith's scream rings. The grief that wells up inside him isn't something he considers normal. Nothing has happened. He knows there's no reason for anything to happen at all. They live on a government base. Keith is in perfect health. Shiro grits through the phantom sorrow, an emotional breadth that mows over his security with Keith, and he exhales pithy laugher. A soft sound escapes the back of his throat. It's tinged with regret he hopes Keith will be able to interpret as an apology.

Keith turns his head enough to kiss his mouth, but the slight pop doesn't satiate him. He pries Shiro's arms off his waist and turns to face him, hands reaching for both sides of his neck. Their mouths slot together, lips opening on contact with mutual moans. While Shiro questioningly quirks an eyebrow, he doesn't think to stop Keith's fervid kissing. In fact, he encourages it, meets him halfway with a brisk flick of his tongue. It's hungry and lifted in a way that has Shiro's palms reaching beneath Keith's tank top and feeling for taut damp skin.

When Keith kisses him it's like the man presses a shotgun to his chest and curls his fingers around the trigger. It rips through his spine and the spray of blood and bone matter project with a bang that stirs the birds. It's the swell of Keith's bottom lip and how he licks the roof of Shiro's mouth with his fingers gliding along both sides of his damp head. Keith rests his elbows on Shiro's shoulders and leaves his fingers tangled in the man's hair, kissing him with the same yearning from their first. It was after his graduation, when Keith knew the upperclassmen and mentor turned full-time teacher would never be allowed to touch him again, and Shiro had attempted to calm him down, reminding him he was graduating soon too.

"I'm so happy," Keith says and presses his face to Shiro's throat, not minding the sweat. He's breathless from kissing. "Stop acting like it won't be like this for much longer. I need it to be like this. We need it to be like this."

Shiro realizes how he sounds. He probably sounds like his faith in them has soured, and he reaches to brushed back Keith's bangs. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Keith gives Shiro a parting kiss that's his way of saying he accepts the veiled apology. Together, they finish their run. Shiro expects the topic to be dropped, but he notices the lingering footnotes when Keith steps into the shower with him. It's in the way he drags his nails down the definition of his shoulder blades and kisses the dip between them, going as far as to suck small red spots to the surface of his skin. Shiro reaches behind himself to squeeze Keith's thigh, and in the same fashion as that morning, Keith presses his forehead to the back of Shiro's neck.

"Maybe we should go on a long vacation?"

Shiro pushes back his soaked bangs, and Keith peers upward at the back of his head when he answers. "I was just on a six month one a few years back."

"Listen to yourself," Keith mutters. "That wasn't a vacation. That was rehabilitation."

Shiro shifts his mouth to the side and smiles when Keith's hand glides across his abs. It stalls at his center and he encouragingly steps back against Keith's weight. Fingers splaying, Keith waits several seconds before he pushes them down toward the crop of dark hair.

"You have a lot on your mind right now," Shiro teases, desperately wanting to lighten the mood.

"It's hard not to when it comes to you."

Keith quietly sucks in an airy breath when his fingers encircle the root of Shiro's cock, and Shiro is so accustomed to Keith's hands on his body he lets himself disappear into the motions.

It's only when they're lounged on the couch, dry and comfortable with a bowl of chips on the coffee table, does Shiro find himself entering that displaced sense of self again. In front of him is the television, and spread across his torso is a half-awake Keith whose breathing has turned even and slow. He walks his fingers down Keith's back who smiles through his semi-consciousness. Shiro shifts so that he can press his mouth to Keith's forehead.

The kiss is the last thing that feels real for several seconds.

As if the couch is immolated, Shiro's body sinks through the cushions and plummets into a dark tarry pit that stuns him. The sensation of falling eventually makes his leg jerk, and Shiro barely hears Keith's voice questioningly say his name. The heels of his palms press to his eyes, and he clears his throat as Keith's voice returns, but in a distant warbled way that reminds him of being underwater. It is distinctly Keith, and the tone is frantic, but it's not the Keith that was just curled up on his chest. He is long gone.

" _Come on, Black! Give him back! Give him back to me!"_

" _He wasn't yours to take! He's not yours!"_

There's a distinct sob. It's a man barely free from his childhood stifling a wail. Shiro hears jostling, what sounds like a kick, and then a frustrated cry of rage accented by a beating fist.

" _You don't get to take him! We can't form Voltron without him!"_

Keith's fight to sound unfluctuating has turned into a tired kind of blubbering that presses its fingers through Shiro's chest and takes hold of his heart. It jerks back its elbow and yanks Shiro forward, trying to take him from the safe darkness he's floating through. Shiro finally lowers his palms and looks around himself. The tar has been replaced by a slow spin of purple blossoms that are geometric in shape and lining what appears to be an endless tunnel. He's still in the tunnel, entirely unmoving, but he feels as if he should be trying to reach the other side.

It's a foreign panic and desperation he can't will away. Something about this reminds him of the static from his dream. There's the dread and then he recalls his disappearing body. Shiro is aware of himself wishing to splinter off again, but he doesn't want to experience that again. The thought of allowing himself to be broken down causes his entire body to pulsate with bone-deep aches.

" _I can't do this without him!"_

" _I am not the Black Paladin!"_

Shiro sucks in a hard breath and closes his eyes. There's a violent gust of hot wind, and when he reopens his eyes, he's on the couch in the safety of his living room. The only issue is that Shiro can hear the churning static from his headset. While he can't hear his environment, Keith is on top of him and holding both sides of his face and yelling his name. He sees it in the way he shapes his mouth and the desperate cross-examination of his face. Shiro tries to return to the moment, and it's a fight unlike anything he's endured before. He can't pilot his way out of it.

He finally speaks. "Do you know what Voltron is?"

"Shiro," Keith says in relief, and the flood of sound startles Shiro. Apparently more moved by the fact he's speaking than what he said, Keith kisses his forehead again and again, shaking from whatever fit Shiro must've been having beneath him. "Shiro, are you okay?"

Shiro repeats the question, and Keith blinks, rubbing his thumbs along the man's cheekbones with a searching gaze. He kisses his forehead again and then slowly pulls himself off Shiro.

"What's Voltron?" Keith asks. 


	3. DAY THREE

Shiro paces back and forth across the bedroom, and Keith is seated on the edge of their mattress, waiting with hands hanging heavy between his knees. It's the next day, and after an evening of eerie muteness that ended with Keith in tremors, Shiro has finally willed himself to speak about his brain's glitch.

It's necessary, he realizes. If he doesn't start speaking, then Keith could feel obligated to contact his psychiatrist. There are few things in life he wants less. Considering the groundwork Shiro had to lay post-Kerberos shuttle incident, the man simply can't fathom backtracking to the point of telling Galaxy Garrison their initial reluctance to put him back inside the simulator was warranted. He doesn't want to be another head case who lost his career because of a freak accident. Forgoing that autonomy is terrifying.

"It's like my brain is a liminal space," Shiro explains. "It's the same anticipation you get when you're alone in an airport and waiting for you zone to be called. I'm waiting to board, but I don't know where my head thinks it's supposed to go. It's dissociation, but it's not. It's too visceral. Too violent."

Keith patiently digests the sentence. Expression seemingly unmoved, Shiro has been in love with Keith long enough to know that, when he darts his gaze downward, he's masking inner turmoil.

Keith carefully asks his next question. Shiro senses the design in every syllable. "Is it suicidal ideation?"

"No," Shiro says sharply, flaring at the idea alone. "I don't want to kill myself,  _Keith_."

Keith redirects his stare onto Shiro's face. His mouth has fallen into a solemn line, and his words are severe. "Don't snap at me,  _Takashi_. We've talked about this. When you're stressed, I'm not the enemy. You have to let me ask hard questions so I can understand what's going on. We don't compute the same way, and we never have. You and I didn't drop thousands on couples' therapy to forget the basics."

"I don't want to kill myself," Shiro repeats, significantly calmer with Keith's redirections.

"Okay," Keith says amicably. "How do you want to handle this? What are you thinking about right now?"

"Losing my job. Losing everything. If my Garrison therapist catches wind and decides I'm unstable, then it's farewell to everything I've worked for. If I lose my fucking head, then I'm likely to lose you too."

"The latter is unlikely. Need I remind you we've been together since we were teenagers? It's going to take a lot more than this to get rid of me. I survived your drop crotch phase. I survived the week you decided you were going to sustain on Greek yogurt even though you are lactose  _intolerant_." Shiro tenderly laughs, but Keith only matches it with a wry smile. "The former, though, is a real risk. I know."

Shiro stops in front of their floor-to-ceiling window. "How do I navigate a mental illness that wants to get rid of me?"

"Medication changes," Keith offers, having been through the mill with Shiro's treatment plan. In the beginning, he had been the one to divvy out Shiro's pill box. "Add another day to weekly therapy?"

"Always pragmatic and ready to fix things," Shiro says fondly. "I'll make some calls."

"Good." Keith heaves himself onto his feet and cracks his back with an aggravated grunt. He approaches Shiro's side and places a hand on the man's bicep. He squeezes the thick muscle and pulls him closer. Keith delicately kisses the corner of Shiro's downturned mouth, and Shiro gives up. He smiles and firmly kisses Keith back. "Do it before we go to Lance's this afternoon. If you still want to go."

"I want to," Shiro says cautiously. He rubs the back of his neck and exhales a slow stream. "But I also don't want to terrify our friends. Matt hasn't stopped texting me since the other night. It's humiliating."

"You don't terrify people, Shiro. There are a lot of types of scared. Scared for someone is different from being scared of someone. You know that."

"Right," Shiro murmurs. He slides an arm around Keith's waist. "I'll see how I feel after the calls."

"Don't push yourself," Keith earnestly says. "Lance has get-togethers once a month. It's not like you're missing the inauguration, and hey. Even those can happen every four years."

Shiro, as he often does, finds himself startled by the sheer amount of goodness tucked inside Keith's heart. He playfully rubs his nose against Keith's temple only to pointedly smack his boyfriend's pert ass. Keith sucks back a cutting breath and cocks an eyebrow, but he forgoes commentary. Instead, he returns the favor and chuckles when Shiro's spine becomes perfectly vertical.

"Minx," Shiro jokes.

Keith separates them and saunters toward the bedroom door. "Takes one to know one. Anyway, the Garrison always liked to remind me I was learning from the best."

"Going out on a limb here, honey, but I don't think that's what they meant."

It's only minutes later Shiro pours fresh coffee and takes a seat with his phone. The calls reassure Shiro. He feels like he's mapping out his own life rather than letting himself drown. His therapist's secretary makes him laugh, and while Shiro doesn't know when or how addressing his bat shit ways became so intrinsic to his person, he supposes it's better than the alternative.

Keith is fresh from the gym when Shiro stops him in the hallway. He captures Keith's forearm and notes the thick veins that have protruded from weight lifting. "We should go to Lance's."

Keith guards his surprise but raises an eyebrow. He lowers his water bottle. "Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine. I promise."

His smile slants. "It's okay if you can't keep that promise."

"Is there ever a time when you don't know exactly what to say?"

In the evening, as they're getting ready, Shiro finds himself rifling through his closet's top shelf. The air has taken a cool turn, and Shiro knows he'll regret not bringing a pullover. Lance likes his bonfires, and Shiro imagines tonight of all nights would be the one to use the fire pit in his backyard. Clear skies and only a handful degrees above seeing his breath's ghost make for long conversations outdoors.

Shiro finds the desired sweater stack. The gray hoodie he wants is wedged in the middle of it, but even he is too lazy to bother tugging down the whole pile and neatly putting it back. He shoves the shirts on top and grabs the gray material with a sudden, sharp yank. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a relatively smooth retrieval, but something square and dense flies free with the hoodie.

It smacks Shiro directly between the eyes. The whack against skin echoes around the room like a lost bullet, and Shiro's reflexes scramble to catch the offender. The  _thing_  bounces from palm to palm before Shiro snatches it midair with a lowly uttered 'Christ.'

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to understand what Shiro has found. Black, velvet and squared with rounded corners, in his hands is a ring box. Shiro's ribs hug his lungs, and as he attempts to reconcile that embrace, his brain paints the bigger picture. In the image of psychedelic kaleidoscopes, brush strokes smear together an abstract expressionist's reverie. There are no concrete predictions in marriage, and Shiro knows this, has feared this for years, but suddenly, his obscurely projected depictions have become sharp. Lemony blotches and intermittent blues are no longer fuzzy and indecipherable to Shiro.

Keith makes perfect sense. It's inhumane to seek Renaissance statuary within someone. Keith, in all his haunting strength and beauty, is unbridled and immaterial as all souls should be.

Keith wants to marry him. The concept alone is levying, but not in the way Shiro expected.

Shiro thinks to pop open the box, but he knows he's already ruined the surprise enough. Out of respect for Keith, he tucks the box back inside the unseasonal clothing and leaves the bedroom.

"Did Lance say what we're cooking for dinner?" Shiro calls down the hall, unassuming as ever.

"Steak or whatever. I don't know.  _Meat_."

"Your favorite."

Shiro is pleased when Keith loud laughs.

Lance's house is also on base. It's a shoebox compared to Shiro and Keith's place, but Lance didn't almost die in a shuttle crash, and also, has no family to keep. A two-bedroom industrial home is all he needs, and frankly, it's the homiest residence Shiro visits at the Garrison. He figures it's because Lance's nieces and nephews cycle in and out, immortalizing coloring book pages on the fridge and scattering toys in even the most obscure corners of Lance's home. There's also the fact Hunk lives to bustle about the kitchen, whipping through gastronomy with the same devotion he has for Galaxy Garrison's labs.

"I can already smell the wood chips on the grill," Keith says mournfully. Mournful because he wants to eat  _now_. He jogs ahead of Shiro and slams his fist against the door in a rhythmic beat, impatient.

Hair slicked back and V-neck sweater on, Lance answers Keith's patterned knocking with a bowl of salad tucked beneath his arm like a soccer ball. The corner of his mouth lifts when he sees the couple and he condescendingly leans over Keith. "Glad you two decided against tentative. We were getting worried. I mean, let's be real, can we even call it a dinner party without Shiro and Keith?"

"Imagine the tragedy of someone having to eat our steaks for us," Keith shoots back with a simper. He pushes himself into Lance's house without invitation. "You're not fooling anyone, Lance."

"Act like you own the place a little more," Lance snaps back and bumps his hip against Keith's. Keith steals a cucumber slice from the bowl and pointedly chomps.

Shiro steps inside after Keith, but a shiver of guilt runs through him. There are reasons Keith acts like he owns the place, and Shiro knows he's the reason why. Not long after returning from the hospital, Keith and Shiro found themselves capsizing. Shiro's heart had been pockmarked with craters, and Keith hadn't been prepared to find the dirt required to fill such deep trenches. They had fought in a way that flash froze the stars, and Shiro had been forced to sweat out the worst of that sickness in a lonely house.

For both their sakes, Shiro rarely acknowledges this era. As Keith has let him know, unless Shiro is absolutely sure of something, he can be painfully self-defeating. An over examination of that specific era could result in painful deconstruction Shiro never finds the point in piecing back together.

Keith is pouring two drinks before Shiro steps inside the kitchen.

"It's good whiskey," he says before Shiro asks. "The kind that doesn't go straight for the throat."

Hunk is sautéing mushrooms when he acknowledges Shiro. Garrison hoodie on, he's casual in flip flops and shorts that are frayed and stringy at the knees. He pauses his stirring to reach for a wine bottle. "What a sight for sore eyes, Shiro. Call me 20/20 now or what. I haven't seen you in _weeks_."

"I live and breathe grading papers," Shiro explains and takes the offered drink from Keith. He sniffs the whiskey, notices Keith has made it significantly less strong than he normally would, and appreciatively sips. "It's been a month long void with the summer programs."

"Flambé!" Hunk warns, and after pouring burgundy wine, admires the fire reaching for the vent. It roars, and once the flames die down, he chuckles as if answering a joke. "No. I understand. Like, the lab this year? It's cool we got so much funding, but it's put us in a whole different kind of overtime. Haven't slept well in weeks."

"A fundamental adult trait," Keith mutters.

"Doesn't help someone wakes up at 3 AM," Hunk says and side eyes Lance who's still holding the salad bowl.

Lance fishes out a cherry tomato and pops it between his teeth. He says his next sentence as if it were one large sigh. "Almost like it's my job or something."

"How's the station doing?" Shiro asks. He prods at the ice cube in his drink before knocking back another long sip. "I wake up to two things in the morning; Keith's snoring and your chipper weather forecast."

"The same. Good, but – " Lance stops himself and plops down his bowl. He grabs both sides of its rim and leans over it toward Shiro and Keith. They've already girded their loins for drama. "No one thinks it's a big deal, but there's been some weird mixing with our frequencies lately. Like, I'm not joking. It's been  _weird_. I'd bet my life I heard this teenage boy scream, but everyone's telling me it's coyotes."

"They do sound similar," Shiro thoughtfully murmurs. He's disbelieving.

"They do," Lance agrees. He spins the salad bowl, and Hunk stabs his cooking spoon into it to make it halt. ("Don't make a mess." "It was fine.") "Anyway, I'd normally back burner this, but after the screaming, there was this ear splitting sound of tearing metal that just kept coming in and out the whole night. I thought I'd picked up on a car crash or maybe some on base disaster, but again, nothing. No one even tried to explain that one."

Unlike Shiro, Keith isn't disbelieving. "You'd think they wouldn't have to lie to us here. We're on a government base."

"You'd think," he grumbles. "They've been happening so often I've been recording them."

Keith shifts his eyes to the side. "Recording them, huh?"

Lance opens his arms as if offering a hug. "Look, I'd be willing to share. Maybe if you two go, then we could get Hunk to listen. He's been avoiding it since I brought it up."

"That's because it's weird, man. It's really weird. If the higher ups don't want us to know, then we shouldn't stick our noses in it. You know what I like? I like my nose. Know what they'll do? They'll cut it off."

Shiro deflates. "I don't think meddling in deep government affairs is a smart idea."

"Is it really meddling if it's your whole life?" Lance wanders over to the stove. He samples Hunk's mushrooms. The mushroom burns his mouth, and he swiftly slips it between his teeth and blows.

Keith shakes his glass. "When can we go?"

Shiro crosses his arms and lets his head fall back. "Keith, really?"

Lance's answer is barely audible without properly functioning teeth. "Tomorrow if you want."

"An adventure could be fun," Keith tries. Shiro slides him a gaze that implies he's unconvinced, but he tilts his head and sighs.

"Listening to recordings is harmless," Lance eggs on.

"We'll go," Shiro relents. "But just to listen and maybe finally put an end to Keith's obsession with those aliens-brought-dinosaurs-to-Earth novels."

Keith, pleased with himself, leans over the bar to high-five Lance. Sometime later, Matt shows up along with a few other acquaintances Shiro has known on and off. While Matt is surprised to see Shiro, he doesn't bother to bring up the night before in person. Instead, Shiro is gifted with a single inquiring text message that he decides to ignore for the sake of his own stability.

Anyway, Shiro has other things on his mind. The entire evening, Shiro flicks uncertain stares onto Keith's symmetrical face over and over.

"Do I have food in my teeth?" Keith asks. He's in the middle of helping gather plates after dinner.

Shiro stops short and smiles. "No. Just looking."

His expression drifts, and Keith quirks an eyebrow. He bites the corner of his smile. "Like the view?"

"Since the moment I met you I have."

Keith snorts and grabs another plate. He tries to say something, but he leaves the room instead with a red-tinted nose.

Once seated outside, Shiro continues to study Keith's angular geometry in the firelight, and suddenly, every shadow cast along his high cheekbones carries a consecrated meaning. He's pointed and perfect with dark circles and mussed black hair typically worn in disheveled buns. They lose wisps in masses and make the man appear as if he's crawled out of bed for every major event of his life.

Shiro, so clean cut and austere, finds himself maddened by the realization he is in love.

He's momentarily forgotten about his mental slips. He's reveling in the fact he could be with the person for the rest of his life.


	4. DAY FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been in travel hell, but what's new. I had this posted elsewhere and forgot to toss it onto the archive because clearly, I have it together. Apologies, everyone. 
> 
> I'm surprised people genuinely even like this story, though. I got enough asks about it that I finally remembered to engage. That said, I reread this chapter and my sheith fluff loins are on fire. 
> 
> They need to get married. They basically are. Just seal the deal, kids.

"This isn't obvious or anything," Hunks says, squinting against the morning sun. It was still contemplating its rise, peach and hazy blue threads noncommittally peeking above the horizon line.

"It's not like we're trying to sneak," Lance mutters beneath his breath. He shoves a gold key into the station's front door and twists. On his keychain, a lion charm his niece bought sways and whacks the door. He turns the handle and shoves, grunting. "And it's not weird to have friends inside the station. People bring their kids all the time. We've even had them on the air."

"Anything is suspect at the Garrison," Keith tiredly says. He swipes his nose and sighs, still in sweats and a red beanie he nabbed walking out the front door.

Shiro is the only one unbothered by the time.

Arms folded across his chest, he watches Hunk, Lance, and Keith disappear through the glass door. The lobby lights flicker to life, but Shiro takes his time and inhales a preparatory breath. He has a headache he assumes is from last night's alcohol, but he has reason to believe it could be anything. A dusty wind combs its fingers through his hair, and Shiro follows the others. Keith is waiting for him with a careful look, and Shiro decides he hates the expression. Not because Keith's concern is condescending, but because he can't stop it.

Keith reaches for Shiro, offering his palm, and Shiro takes it. His fingers curl around Keith's cool ones, but the other man doesn't have time for narrow enclosures. He laces their hands, and Shiro fondly thinks back to the era when Keith refused to hold his hand. It wasn't because he didn't want to, and it wasn't because Takashi Shirogane was Golden Boy with professors-turned-coworkers who treated the lobby like gossip hour. Eventually, after moving in together, Keith explained it was because Shiro was good, and he knew how good was fragile.

Shiro had to be gold leaf fired onto glass for Golden Boy to be the reason.

Shiro squeezes Keith's hand, and though Keith pauses, he squeezes back. Keith doesn't let up the pressure and swipes his thumb along the top of Shiro's hand, creating a rhythm that syncopates with Shiro's heartbeat. They climb the stairs to the shared studio, but it's common knowledge Lance spends more time there than anyone.

"The lair," Lance ominously says when they stop at the door.

With fanfare, he swings it open and utters a dry 'ta-da.' The studio is a cramped cube Shiro knows won't comfortably fit the four of them. It's three tables are weighed down by two beige mixing consoles, two dated desktops still dutifully sleeping, and devices Shiro can't recognize. He spots the antique microphone hanging above Lance's rolling chair, but Lance swats it away like a bug.

He plops down and cracks his knuckles.

"What do you think?" Lance asks, too self-aware to expect a lie.

"What a sad little cave," Keith says beneath his breath.

"Cozy," Hunk tries, and Lance cuts him an unimpressed look.

"I've been here before," Shiro carefully says. "Doesn't look like a lot has changed."

Lance turns on the equipment, and soon, the room is purring like a cat. He glances at the time, habitually double checks that day's weather forecast and then rolls the computer mouse. He pops open an encrypted file, and as his software tears it to shreds and rebuilds it, he lets go of the mouse and spins his seat.

"I'm warning you now," Lance says. "It's pretty creepy. The first one isn't that bad. It's the crash one, but the next ones are way out of my wheelhouse."

"Who did you hand these over to?" Shiro asks. Keith hasn't stopped petting his hand, and Shiro realizes someone's hand is damp. He figures it's his.

"Since I've known him the longest, I asked Iverson what he thought, but he brushed me off. Old cadet opinions die hard, I guess. Totally doesn't matter to him I graduated top of my class. Fighter pilot here."

"Iverson isn't worth a lot lately," Keith bitterly says.

Lance lift his eyebrows, but he knows better than to ask. The computer screen flashes once, and an audio player appears as a thin gray line seated beside a darker sideways triangle. Lance shifts in his chair and begins to type on the keyboard. Shiro doesn't realize it's a complex password until a four file playlist boots.

"This is the car crash one," Lance says. 

He clicks a file.

The audio is immediately distorted. That's the first thing Shiro notices at least. It buzzes and hums before dissipating into a noise reminiscent of crunching on stale cereal. This chewing lingers for too long, making Keith impatient enough to roll his eyes, but Shiro doesn't look away from the media player. He trusts Lance's word, and soon, he's not disappointed. The crunching shatters like glass, and a piercing metallic tear ripples Shiro's skin. His heart palpitates like a cornered rabbit's, but the noise continues, unrelenting and spilling from the speakers like a gulching milk jug.

Shiro touches his temple and rolls his jaw. He tries to pop his ears, clear them for more sound, but slight deafness is committed to his canals.

"There's that one," Lance absently says, concentrating on the sound waves worming across the screen. "This is where it gets spooky."

The next file starts as static. The grating white noise glitches, folding in on itself over and over again, but Lance slowly leans back, preparing himself for impact.

"Imagine hearing this entirely alone," he whispers, having memorized the file down to slight nuances.

The scream is sudden, but it tears through Shiro's throat like a sloppy shot, taking his voice with it. His eyebrows creep upward because while the male's cries are roughened, eroded by computerization, they're familiar both in who they belong to and their distinct mournfulness. It's pain only conceivable through a lifetime of anger and loss, and the faceless young man is sinking, dripping like red candle wax.

Shiro slowly curves his stare onto Keith who is no longer impatient but at attention. Eyes forward and staring past the screen, his thumb stops brushing.

"How did Iverson think this was nothing?" Hunk asks. He rolls Lance's chair to the side and crouches down to watch the waves. "There has to be a way to radiolocate this."

"I've tried. They were backscattered," Lance says, talking over screams. It dithers into hyperventilating Shiro knows as boyish sobs. They're the same ones he's coddled quiet in the night.

Hunk isn't satisfied with Lance's defeat. He thoughtfully scrapes his nails along his cheek. "Can you get me a copy of this? Send me everything you have, even doodle notes."

"I'll put it on a hard drive, but I've peeled these files apart."

"Don't underestimate the resources I'm not allowed to tell you I have."

Lance squints and mouths 'aliens,' and Hunk dismissively snorts.

Keith is still listening to the track, and Shiro realizes his pupils are quaking, eyes bright but vacant. His current dissonance isn't lost on Shiro who can't believe the other two men don't recognize the voice on the remaining two tracks. He can only assume it's because there is only a handful of people Keith has unravels for. He's private. Maybe more so than Shiro ever has been, but surely, Lance would recognize it.

After all, Lance was there during their Not Break Up.

There are comprehensible words at the end of the audio, but static melts them, deflating the tone into a deep warble that goes from youthful and terrified to cavernous and deep.

" _Shiro_ – _a body, anything_ –"

Keith curls his nails into Shiro's hand, and Shiro squeezes back. It's Shiro's turn to soothingly rub his thumb along Keith's hand.

" _Please_ – _not again_ –"

"This is surreal," Hunk whispers, pale.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Lance pushes Hunk aside. His hand slaps onto the mouse and he swiftly drags the audio file over his media mixing software's icon. Its window pops open, taking its sweet time loading, and he grumbles. When it's done thinking, Lance isolates select seconds. "Words weren't there before. They weren't there."

"Not possible," Hunk assures him. He tries not to laugh but his nerves win. "Things are always different when you listen to them with people. You are so spazzing yourself out right now."

Lance shoots him a glare better left for mothers. "It wasn't there."

He hits play, and suddenly, Shiro is trapped inside an auditory loop. Above him is violet noise, and beneath the soles of his feet sits the nothingness that's black noise. He's suspended somewhere in the gradient.

"It's saying Shiro's name," Lance says, confirming Shiro's assumption.

" _Right_. Who would say Shiro's name like that in the middle of nowhere?" Keith asks. The panic brushes his words like an egg wash. It's transparent at first, but as heat inside the studio intensifies, so does his tone's coloring. "We're mishearing. Can you clean up the file?"

"I've already cleaned them up once, but with these new sounds, I guess I should try again."

Keith tightens his grip on Shiro's hand and subtly jerks. "Great because Shiro and I have to go mow the lawn. We'll talk to you guys later. Let me know what you find."

Shiro knows Keith has picked flight over fight, and as friends, Hunk and Lance feign obliviousness. As Shiro is tugged through the studio door, Hunk makes the observation that they're in the desert and no one has a lawn.

"It's probably a sexual innuendo," Lance says.

Shiro groans beneath his breath, and Keith rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. The conversation trails them down the hall.

Hunk chuckles. "But who is mowing the lawn?"

"You know what they say. Sometimes the fine print is better left unread, Hunk."

"No one says that."

Keith doesn't speak until they're inside the car. Head firmly pressed against the car's headrest, he looks like he's practicing posture. Shiro recognizes the thin breathing, the way his jaw is clenched and tongue licks the inside of his teeth. It's a side of Keith he's seen less and less of over the past few years.

"That was my voice."

A hollow observation, but at least it's there. Shiro is relieved to know he's not _that_ fucking crazy.

"It was," Shiro confirms, carefully watching Keith and arming himself with appropriate reactions.

Keith sucks back a sharp breath, holds it like smoke and exhales. "Are we losing our minds or haunted?"

"Don't ask a man with a rocket science background if he's haunted."

Keith, inherently more superstitious than Shiro, lets his brow twitch. "Then what is it? Mass hysteria?"

"They do experimentations on the western property. If anything, we should report this and have the water and ground tested. They could be poisoning the base." Shiro knows the thought is a pathetic cop-out, but he wants to harness himself with facts and reason.

"How could chemical experimentation capture my voice saying things I've never said, Shiro? Check your logic, Mr. Rocket Science. It's not sound. Even when I missed you at my weakest, I didn't talk like that."

This isn't Keith guarding his feelings. Shiro recalls the Kerberos Mission launch, and Keith's unmoved expression throws itself onto the forefront of his thoughts. They were in front of an audience that made masculine sentimentality uncomfortable, so Keith had grabbed his arm and simply asked him to come home.

He'd barely kept that promise.

Shiro leans over the steering wheel and pensively watches the empty lobby through the station's window. Behind them, a car sleepily rolls past, and Shiro's eyes follow the faint shadows cast by its headlights. He groans and shoves himself back, tilting his head to stare at the gray nothingness that's the vehicle's ceiling. He counts the fabric's sprouted threads and fights the intrusive thought that says they look like pubic hair.

"We'll wait for Hunk to get back to us, but Lance did say they're backscattered."

"It's not normal," Keith says, angry.

"It's what I've been hearing, though," Shiro confesses, too quiet and embarrassed. He turns the ignition over. "That static sound, I mean. Your voice, too."

Keith's eyes pulse wide, and he digests the new information with his face forward. His mouth opens on a thought, but lost in his own mind, he forgets to speak.

They grab breakfast at the nearby diner, and Keith changes the topic. He discusses his students, the updated flight simulator's pros and cons, and he keeps dipping his fingertips into his hot coffee. A western omelet with home fries and sourdough toast slides in front of him, but he doesn't stop talking and Shiro continues to listen. He forgets about his own scrambled eggs and split English muffins because Keith is all substance.

Lance's voice appears over the restaurant speakers, and Keith stops to listen.

"He likes hearing himself talk," Keith fondly says. "He likes it more than instructing."

Shiro twists his mouth to the side. "Instructing  _is_  listening to yourself talk."

"Maybe that's why we're all friends," Keith says, wry as ever. He leans back, arms slipping behind his head as he stretches his back along the booth. Keith moans, but he doesn't stop curving until his spine pops. Shiro's eyes lock onto the sudden midriff beneath Keith's hooded sweatshirt's hem, and he thinks about going home.

"Narcissists, all of us," Shiro vacantly says.

"Not you," Keith promises and drops his hand to the spot Shiro hasn't stopped eying. He scratches. "You admire others, even when you think no one notices."

Caught red-handed.

Shiro laughs in spite of himself and lifts his gaze. Keith winks at him with a vague smirk that reveals the tip of his right canine, and Shiro is in love. All over again, he is so in love.

He thinks this often, but does he say it enough? Shiro pickles that question and realizes he could never say it enough, but there's no harm in trying.

"I love you," Shiro says.

Keith is hardly fazed, but he makes an expression Shiro can only describe as pleased. "I love you too."

"I'm in love with you."

Finding that funny, Keith wrinkles his nose and discerns the sentences structural differences. He chuckles and brushes aside his bangs, then tugging the edges of his beanie over warm ears.

"I'm in love with you too."

They exchange looks that burn through each other, and as if having made a pact, Shiro and Keith mutually avoid mentioning the radio station for the rest of the day.

It's deep into the evening when Hunk calls.

Shiro and Keith are curled up on the couch, watching their third episode of a competitive cooking show featuring knife throwing, when Keith's phone vibrates on his lap. He grabs the device and doesn't tear his gaze from the television, gliding his thumb across the screen to answer as if it's second nature.

Keith presses the phone to his ear and aloofly says, "What's good?"

He didn't read the screen to see who called, and Shiro's stomach plummets at the thought of Iverson being greeted with a 'what's good.' Then again, why would Iverson call at eleven at night?

"Oh – hey, Hunk." Keith says his name for Shiro's sake. "Yeah. We're up. Don't worry about it."

There's a pause on Keith's end, and Shiro grabs the remote. He pauses their show and attempts to eavesdrop. Keith saves him the trouble by hitting the speaker button.

Hunk's voice awkwardly spills into the living room.

"– found what I think might be a couple sources. They're still fragmented, but some land in places that are stronger than others. It's kind of incredible, actually. Some aren't that far at all, but then others act like they came from outer space. It's totally out of our atmosphere, though. That's for sure."

"Are they bouncing off satellites?" Shiro asks.

"Hi, Shiro. You know, I thought that but –" Hunk exhales and murmurs beneath his breath, either reading to himself or interpreting information in front of him. "I don't have the big guns to assess it from home."

Keith furrows his brow. "Can you take it to the lab? I thought you had resources."

"Theoretically, yes." Hunk's typing swells throughout his next lull. "But you've got to understand what we're dealing with here, guys. If I get caught with these files and even one person finds them remotely interesting, then the only reason we won't end up in a whole world of trouble is if we can prove Iverson dismissed Lance, which good luck with that. All of the research will be seized, and uh, no one's gonna figure out why Keith's ghost is haunting the Garrison radio station."

Keith twitches. "So you recognized it as me? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Lance and I both did, but you didn't say anything, so we thought we were projecting."

"Great," he whispers. "Fucking great."

Shiro shifts closer to the phone. He closes his eyes and thinks, but he knows he can't take his time. "We can't do anything about the far away waves right now, but what about the locations nearby? Have you mapped them?"

"Already way ahead of you, man. The coordinates are approximate, but they're not far off enough to make it a wild goose chase through the canyons."

"The canyons?" Keith asks. Something about that clicks, but he doesn't explain himself.

Shiro quirks an eyebrow, waiting for more, and Keith shakes his head as if it's nothing.

Keith exhales and drags a hand down his face. He uncertainly speaks, omitting  _something_. "I spent a lot of time there a few years ago, but unless the Garrison was doing drills, it was all rocks and quiet."

"The canyons are pretty big, buddy," Hunk counters.

Shiro scrubs his jaw with a palm. "Can you send us the map right now?"

"I could, but I'd rather do it old school and hand off a physical map. It'd be easier for this to be tracked back to me if I sent you any kind of digital-whatever. Somehow, there's less of a paper trail if we use paper."

"Makes sense," Keith murmurs. He lifts his hands, gesturing wide. "This isn't illegal. What we're doing isn't illegal."

Hunk manages an 'eh,' and Shiro can picture his shrug. "You can say that, but you have to admit it's kind of fun playing detective. Nothing happens around here anymore. Live a little, Keith."

"God," Keith mutters. 

"We'll stop by around eight tomorrow," Shiro says. Somehow, he's smiling and Keith isn't.

"Loud and clear, O Captain. The Bustelo will be on." He stops short, catching a nearly escaped thought. "Oh, also, Lance found something else, too. He'll be here he just doesn't know it yet. It's his one day off this week."

 


End file.
